Continued from yesterday:
Stephenson’s place was next on her list, since it was closer. Forensics was finishing up from crawling all over the place, so Carol listened to the radio in the car while James spoke with officials.
She bought out her sketchbook and a pencil and tried to remember every detail of the little girl she’d ‘seen’.
Dear little face. Beautiful eyes… even though they were also concentration-camp eyes. Still had all her baby teeth. The hair was starting to grow out. It was curly. Almost white. Her hands and feet were quadradactyl. A visible mark of her mutantcy. Just like the numbers.
James came back when Carol was drawing the numbers on the kid’s arm.
“That’s her, eh?”
“This is the little girl I saw.” Carol tapped the final three digits. "Two hundred and thirty-seven. No. *Two* thirty-seven. Why’s that important?“
"That’s what the Greenwood kid’s calling herself, now,” said James. “I got the forensics boys to position Vinnie. They’re ready for you.”
Carol put a new tape in the deck. “Did you tell 'em?”
“Yeah. I told 'em.”
Stephenson’s home was very neat. Which made it rather hard to tell if he’d been cleaned out or not. Carol followed 'the vibe’ to the dining room. “It started in the dining room,” she told the tape. “All three of them, this time. Not just the male… Victim put up a fight. Uniform… he was a military man. Surprised… fighting for survival… This isn't the second place they hit. This is number three.”
“She’s *good*,” muttered a cop.
“That’s why I married her,” said James.
Carol had her eyes closed, following the memory of footsteps. “They *had* weapons, but they didn’t use them. The aim is not to kill, but to inflict pain. Suffering.”
The trail stopped in the bedroom. “He fell here. Master bedroom. Trying to get a gun?” Carol knelt on the carpet. “Yeah. Trying to get a gun. Shoot the mutie bastards… That’s when they knocked him out.” She stood. “And they dragged him back downstairs…” This place was different. Purposeful. “They’re getting deliberate, now. Something exact and poetic…”
Carol balked at the chrome-effect kitchen. “The kitchen’s like a lab. They put him on the table… trussed him up - like an experiment. Nie Wieder on the wall, again. Numbers on the arm. Shaved head. That’s the ritual. That’s the key. Do unto others… Very biblical.” Carol felt herself drawn to a hole in the wallpaper. “They pinned something up. A document. A piece of a file. Pinned with bone…” She touched it, and damn near fainted.
She came out of the 'brownout’ to find Paul supporting her.
“Is it like the Wilson case?” he asked, worried. The Wilson case had been an epic bloodbath of such malevolent spite that Carol had needed medication and a couple of months off. “Do you need a drink of water?”
Carol shook her head. “Get me out of here. Take me to the car…" tears gathered in her eyes and she found herself sobbing. "OmyGod… OmyGod, omyGod…”
The victims had performed experiments on that poor little girl.
And the mutant attackers were exacting revenge.
~
Jean pulled up to the gates of the Institute at approximately warp nine, and skidded to a halt in front of the wrought iron, fumbling for her access code in the glove compartment.
“Dammit, dammit, where did I put that stupid piece of paper?” she muttered, cursing whoever decided to change the codes every week.
She very nearly jumped out of her skin when a hand touched her shoulder, and whirled in her seat with her hand raised in a karate chop action. A vision of brown eyes and tousled black hair leapt backwards, holding up his palms in the universal gesture of 'hold your horses’.
“Whoa, there, I’m not the enemy!” he said in a voice like honeyed silk. He sounded familiar, and Jean squinted in the failing light at his vaguely hispanic features.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she asked, more abrupt than normal because her need to get inside and report what she’d skimmed from the Greenwoods’ minds.
The man facing her lowered his hands, but watched warily until she did the same. He was well-built, though not as muscular as, say, Scott or Remy. Instead, he had the pretty-boy physique of a male model or similar. All style and no substance.
“Uh, I’m assuming Ally never told you I was coming, then.”
“Ally?” Jean blinked, then made the connection. “Oh, Alison. No, sorry, I left this morning before she was up. And you are?”
The vision gave a theatrical bow. His lopsided smile was infectious. "Allow me to introduce myself, then. The name’s Nekobah. Roman Nekobah.“
"The actor?” It was a stupid question, but she couldn’t help herself. Now she remembered where she’d seen him before. This was the pinup 'heartthrob’ Tabitha had posters of glued all over her bedroom.
“The very same. I, uh, came by to drop off a few of Ally’s things. If that’s OK, of course.” He gestured at the chevy parked not a few metres away - how had she missed *that* when she pulled up? - which was stuffed with cardboard boxes and suitcases of various sizes and shapes. “If I remember correctly from an article in the Daily Bugle, the only person with red hair on the X-Men is Jean Grey, the telepath.” There was that smile again. “You can scan my mind to make sure I’m telling the truth, if you like.”
She did, though force of habit made her study his face at the same time. “You’re clean,” she announced at last. “But you’d better be grateful that I’m in a hurry, otherwise I would’ve given you nothing less than the third degree as well.”
He made a show of wiping his brow. “Glad I escaped that, then. Shall you go first, or shall I?”
“Considering I’ve got the entrance code and compatible retina, it's probably best if I do.”
He spread his hands wide. “Then lead on MacDuff.” The nhe jogged back to his car and slid in, every inch the charmer teenage magazines everywhere painted him to be.
~
Fairly confident of their visitor’s intentions, and was even more confident of the Mansions security, Jean and Scott left him to it while they hurried off to meet their fellow team mates.
It turned out that they were in emergency meeting with Dann, and by the time Jean arrived it was almost halfway though.
'Where the hell were you?’ snapped Dann angrily.
She quickly filled them in, though, baring in mind Dann’s presence, she missed out the part with Warren.
'There have been more attacks,’ informed the Proffessor, 'one on a Cnl Stephenson and another on a Doctor Markus Phelps. Both are now clinging to their lives in hospital. The signatures of the first crime remain much the same, shaved heads, the graffiti, stolen property, numbers on the arms…’
'Are we any closer to discovering who did this?’ asked Jean.
'Is there any question?’ retorted the Cajun, 'Gambit don’ know dat many blue demon’s flyin’ round New York. Non?’
'Yes, but what’s the *motivation?*’ said Cyclops, sticking up for Jean as usual. 'If we knew that we’d have some inkling of where he'd strike next.’
'I’m working on that now,’ said Dann suddenly, 'I just got this report from NYPD, it’s from an agent of theirs, Mrs Carol Radcliffe, she's handed in a most enlightening piece of literature. It’s still sketchy, but it confirms a few things we’ve been suspecting. I just need to take a call, check a few things out. When I’m done I might have some info for you, and some orders.’
With this he marched out.
When he had left the room, Alex piped up.
'When I’m done I might have some info for you,’ he mimicked, making his voice squeeky and nasal. 'Honestly,’ he continued, 'why the hell to we put up with that creep!’
'Because without him we’d be down the tubes,’ snapped Storm, 'as would any chance for mutant equality.’
'Yeah, well, don’t mean I have to like it. That guy gives me the creeps.’
'This whole situation gives me the creeps,’ murmbered Jean.
'What’s that?’ said Scott.
'Well,’ the red-head continued, 'It’s just… this entire situation… these attacks, the way they’re done, it’s… well… strange. They seem so angry. I don’t like it. There’s something bad going on, something we’re not seeing. Something nasty underneath all of this.’
'You don’ think that havin’ a blue, kickass demon is bad enough, petite?’ Gambit drawled, his red eyes narrowing in vague suspicion.
'I’m not saying that,’ retorted Jean hurriedly, 'all I’m saying is maybe the demon we can see isn’t the one we should be worrying about the most.’
Perhaps more would have been said, but at that moment Dann strode back in, brandishing a CD, if he had overheard their conversation he gave no indication of it.
'It’s like I thought,’ he said, 'pattern fits perfectly.’
He sat back down in his chair at the meeting table, then slotted in the disk into his console. Immediately a holographic projection of four figures rose up from the centre of the meeting table. There were three men and one woman, two wore lab coats, one an army uniform, and the other a suit.
'These,’ began Dann, 'are four of the seven members of Operation Mutational Solution.’
'Let me guess,’ interupted Piotr, 'the other three members are in critical care right now, ne?’
Dann nodded grimly.
'What is Operation Mutational Solution?’ asked Proffesor Xavier, before the government operative could continue.
'It’s a project designed to combat and cure mutations.’ replied Dann smoothly, 'we want to design a vaccine that can prevent mutation in children, perhaps even one that can reverse the mutagenic process, turn mutant’s into norms. It’s barely past the paperwork part at the moment, so *serious* work is being done on it, but that’s enough. We figure that this group of terrorists are some mutant pride group, targeting these people, making an example of them. Trying to end the project before it's begun.’
'What about the numbers?’ asked Scott.
'Oh, that’s just the number of the project.’
'And what about the messages,’ asked Xavier, 'in the house of the second victim the computer listed various child abuse charges.’
'Probably charges against unborn foetuses or such like, I don’t know, these guys are nut cases! What I am pretty sure of is that these four people are going to be attacked in the near future. Your orders are to go out there and protect them, by any means possible. OK?’
There was a grumble of acent round the table, Jean nodded and turned back to the holograms. She frowned, one of them looked… familiar.
'Who’s that one?’ she asked, pointing to the suited gentlman, slightly elderly with greying blond hair, 'he looks familiar.’
'He should do,’ responded Dann, 'he’s one of the biggest business men in New York, ploughed a hell of a lot of money into the project, became it’s main financial overseer. His name is Worthington, Warren Worthington the second.'
~
Doctor Patricia Watson[29] only woke up when one of them hit her. All she saw of her attackers was shapes in the dark, and two glowing yellow lights that looked like eyes.
When they found her later, she was dressed in brief hospital scrubs, and the rest of the serial attack key features were present. The shaved head. The numbers on her arm. And the words, 'Nie Wieder’ in blood on the wall.
Her eight-year-old son had slept through the entire attack, and was still hysterical when the paramedics arrived.
There were also some strange baby photos pinned to the wall. Of a little blonde girl, barely two months old, in a hospital-style crib.
Those photos had the same number that was on Patricia’s arm.
She was the last one who was attacked without warning.
*
Meanwhile, in the Daily Planet[30]…
“Letters, emails, faxes… every nutcase on the planet is claiming responsibility for these attacks. Right-to-lifers, Religious Right, Religious left… lunatic Fringe…” Perry tossed letters around. "Listen to this one: 'Dear boss[31], you thought I’d died in Merry Ole London, but I’m back. This time, the whores are working for the rich man…’ Great Ceasar’s ghost. How can we sort the fakes from the *real* one?“
"This one’s my favourite,” said Jimmy Olson. “I’m a giant *vulture*[32]…”
“Just sort them, Jimmy.”
“Yes, chief.”
“Oh great. Another one. Get this pile of mulch– 'We, the Legion of the Unwanted, have made a statement. Four have fallen, and now it is time for judgement’–”
“Chief…” said Jimmy.
“It goes on. 'Never again will hidden people conduct experiments on sapient life. Never again will children cry for their mothers on the way to the gas chamber’–”
“*Chief*…”
“Don’t interrupt. This stuff is almost pure gold.”
“But Chief…”
“*What*?”
“Look at the handprint on the *back*.”
Perry did. It was a tridactyl handprint. In human blood. He went white. “Oh, holy… It’s real. I was laughing at it and it’s real…”
“Put it in a clear envelope, chief,” said Jimmy. “I’m calling 911.”
*
Cameras flashed, making Cyclops glad of the ruby quartz that shaded his eyes. “As an enforcing arm, we cannot always arrest crime before it starts. Even mutants have limits. Our telepaths cannot scan every person in this city, let alone the world. It would be a violation of privacy rights even if we could. We can not always come to the rescue 'in the nick of time’… We may be heroes, but life - unfortunately - is not like a comic book[33]. We had no warning, no hint, that these attacks would occur and - before today - no pattern to follow to the perpetrator.”
Soon, those quiet members of the press would be clamouring for answers like baying hounds.
“Rest assured that our efforts to find this 'Legion of the Unwanted' will increase. We *will* do our best to stop these terrorists, whether their crimes are against humans *or* mutants.”
Then, finally, the fatal line that was going to eat up most of their time and take up ninety percent of the sound bites. “Any questions?" _And no stupid answers, Scotty-boy._
A roar of babble burst out, until he selected someone who looked quite unlike the Gutter Press.
"What does the number on the victims’ arms mean?”
“Good question,” said Cyclops. “Our sources say that the number is a specific file in a covert medical research operation. Why the terrorists *chose* this file number is still under investigation an–”
A murmur broke out. Scott looked behind him. The giant screen projecting his image was no longer projecting his image. This looked like a generic interior of an abandoned warehouse.
There was someone tied to a chair.
Scott recognised him as one of the remaining three people associated with Operation Mutational Solution. Someone walked into the frame.
It was Chuckles the Demon. By night known as Nightcrawler.
_Oh *fuck*…_
_You can say that again,_ Jean 'said’ by telepathy.
“Guten Tag,” said Nightcrawler’s image. “I felt that the gentleman down there on the podium wasn’t going to have all the answers, so I thought I might supply them for him.” He smiled. “You’re *all* wondering about it, aren’t you? What do the numbers mean? Why 'nie wieder’? What's with the shaving? And who is this man?”
Nightcrawler dropped into a crouch, his tail twitching and writhing. "This - person - for want of a better word, is General Gordon MacAllistar. One of the higher-ups in his little project. A project called 'Operation Mutational Solution’.“
Shawn Dann went quietly appoplectic in the background, all but diving for a quiet spot to talk on his cellular.
"It’s a very interesting little project,” continued Nightcrawler. "Asking all the important questions like, 'What makes a mutant?’ and, 'How can we stop it?’ and, 'Can we undo it?’… Very logical questions, ja? It also asks, 'Can we make a few weapons so we can stay ahead of the other guys?’… A very *interesting* question, ja? They think they found at least *some* of their answers. Especially to the *last* one.“
The members of the press fell to murmuring.
"So, to that end, I’d like to introduce you to a very special file. You know her number. Let me show you her face. Gekommen sie. Come on… It’s okay. The bad man won’t hurt you, liebe…”
Another figure came onto the screen. A little girl. She was barely four and a half, and she had Auschwitz eyes. Eyes that had seen too many waking nightmares.
“Meet Juliet. Formerly known as file number triple one eight zero four one zero–” he paused for effect, “–two thirty-seven. Men under *this* man’s command exterminated her family and took her from her home. Scientists under his orders tattooed her. They put numbers on her arm.”
Scott covered his mouth as the numbers on the girl’s arm were revealed. It was an old tattoo. Scott could tell.
“I’ve already exacted *my* vengeance on the four people most directly related to Juliet’s former torment,” said Nightcrawler. He was cuddling the little girl, brushing her short hair with his hands. “Now it’s the public’s turn. Scrolling across the bottom of this screen is a website where you, the people, can tell us exactly what we can *do* with Herr General, here. Spare him? Or dispense the summary justice of your choice?”
Juliet was clinging tight to him, like he represented her ultimate protector. She was plainly very afraid of General MacAllistar.
“Away from Bad Man?” squeaked Juliet.
“Ja, you go to Meggan, liebe. Go as *far* away as you like.”
Juliet ran, arms wide, for an unseen person, presumably 'Meggan’.
“Take note of the URL, dear public. Unlike your government, us mutants are willing to listen. We’re not the monsters we seem to be. Nein. The real monsters are like this man–” he gestured at MacAllistar, “–who would kill a family and abduct an innocent child - because she possesses the X-gene.”
Nightcrawler stood. “Just ask yourself. If *my* child were a mutant - would I want *this* man sticking needles into them?” He waved. “Gut Nacht, America…”
Blip. Scott was staring at the back of his head. He faced front. _Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t say anything stupid…_ He took a breath.
~
“I’d advise you all not to panic - ”
Needless to say, they ignored his pseudo-sage advice. There was a struggle of bodies wrenching up from their seats, and then it was an all-out rampage as people either ran screaming down the aisles, or toward the podium with microphones outstretched.
“Mr. Summers! Mr. Summers!”
“Cyclops, any comment on that little display?”
“Cyke old buddy, talk to me. What’s up with the blue demon at your press conference? Are you in league with him? Is that how he got uplink to your systems tonight?”
“Yeah, Mr. Summers. Was this all a set-up for him to broadcast that message?”
Scott raised his hands, taking an involuntary step backwards at the crowding horde of people and cameras. One reporter grabbed at his ankle, and it skittered it out of the way, unsure of her intention considering what some of the others were saying.
“I can assure you, I - we - had nothing to with this. I assume this 'Nightcrawler’ has some sort of satellite uplink he used to hack into our systems and highjack the monitor. No, I’m not supporting his actions, or the actions of this Legion of the Unwanted. *No*, I don't know who they are.”
“Are you gonna go rescue that dude on the chair?” asked a grubby youth in sweats and T-Shirt. He wasn’t part of any news crew, but the rest of them took up the chant the moment it left his mouth.
“Yeah, are you finally gonna go earn that money of yours, laser-boy?”
“New headline, Billy. 'Mutants to the Rescue’.”
“Got it, boss.”
“Mr. Summers! Mr. *Summers*!” A woman with dark, curly hair and lips coloured a vibrant blood red shouted above the heads of her cohorts. "Mr. Summers, *please*.“
Perhaps it was the pleading note to her voice. Perhaps it was simply that she’d used a modicum of manners where everyone else abandoned them. Perhaps it was that she was so short she was in danger of being crushed at any moment. Whatever the reason, Scott suddenly felt a swell of pity for the diminutive reporter, and reached down to yank her up and onto the dais.
She staggered, one of her heels snapped off somewhere at ground level, and hair all askew. "Thanks,” she said, with no small amount of feeling. "As much as I want to lose weight, being crushed to two-dimensional proportions isn’t the means I had in mind.“ She adjusted her suit, ran manicured fingers through her hair, and brandished the mike. "May I?”
Scott inwardly sighed. But, best to get it over with quickly. “Sure. Fire away.”
The woman gestured to a cameraman in the mass of bodies, and he shoved his way to a point where his view wasn’t too obscured and started rolling while security guards called hastily in by Dann started moving the throng away via force.
“Mr. Summers, would you like to tell us what your feelings are on that broadcast by the, ah, 'Legion of the Unwanted’?”
Scott cleared his throat. “Certainly.” _Say something clever, Scooter. Something to calm people down - get them on your side._ “Obviously, I don’t hold with what was said and demonstrated in that clip, and both I and my team will set out as soon as possible to stop Nightcrawler from his chosen course of action.”
The reporter pouted. “Just stole my next question, you moppet,” she said in a voice that exuded professional playfulness. “No need for me to ask what you plan to do about it, then?”
“We’ll do everything in our power to stop this atrocity before it.. uh, happens. The X-Men stand for tolerance between humans and mutants. This sort of terrorist action will *not* be tolerated, I can tell you that much.”
“Strong words. But how exactly are you going to find our friend the General?”
_Guy’s no friend of mine._ “Like a magician, I can’t reveal all of our tricks, Miss… ah…”
“Tilby. Trish Tilby, ZNN.” She flashed him a dazzling smile. “Not even for little 'ole me?”
Scott found himself smiling, despite the current situation. Then he shook himself, returning to leader mode toute de suite. “Miss Tilby, like I said, we’ll do all we can. And as I was going to say before I was rudely interrupted,” he shot a glance at the towering screen, “We recently came into possession of some information that could help us stop these terrorists on a much larger scale, beyond just rescuing individual victims.”
“You mean, you could shut down their operations?”
“With any luck, yes. At the very least, we can stop any more people being hurt or put in danger by these people. And that’s a promise.”
_Yo, Scott. Just got word on another of the remaining foursome._ Jean’s mental voice cut in like a flare in a storm. _Patricia Watson. They found her a little while ago, just like the others._
_Dammit._
_That just leaves MacAllistar, Worthington and some joker called James D. Corban[34]. We’re losing our pigeons, boss-man. If the roost's completely empty without us saving or preventing at least *one* of them, we’ll be so deep in shit it’ll take us until Christmas next year to dig ourselves out again._
_You think this is news?_ he shot back waspishly. _Look, Jean, I’m a little busy at the moment. Just give me a second to finish up and I'll be right along to talk strategies with you and the others._
_Little late for that._
_Excuse me?_ Trish Tilby looked confused, and Scott realised he hadn't spoken for several minutes. Jeez, what was her last question? “My people have ways of dealing with things like this, Miss Tilby. Rest assured, we’ll get these terrorists before they do any more harm.”
She nodded appreciatively. “Well, that sounds pro-active. Just as long as it’s not a repeat of the DuBois Debacle.”
Scott winced. The Daily Planet had coined that one not five minutes after they flew their asses out the hotel window. Already the story had picked up speed, making it imperative they be successful against Nightcrawler and his lackeys this time, else they lose all public respect completely - and with it, any chance of repairing human-mutant relations.
_Scott, I think I’d better warn you that Dann’s already up in arms about this whole crisis,_ Jean broadcast, and he received a fleeting image of Dann jumping up and down, pointing and yelling. No change there, then. _He’s demanding we split off and protect the two remaining targets, as well as go save MacAllistar._
_Do we really want to save a rat-bastard like him?_ Scott suppressed the urge to scowl, thinking about what Jean had told him on the way to this conference. From what she’d picked up at the Greenwood’s place, MacAllistar and his cronies were involved in something fishy concerning mutants and children. Dann had done his job well covering things up, but even he couldn’t smooth over all the cracks, and Scott knew he wasn't the only one with reservations about this while business.
_Orders are orders, mon Capitan. Piotr and I get to go protect Corban. Lucky us, he’s in Ohio right now on a business trip. Hopefully that means Nightcrawer’s goons can’t get to him. Remy and Ororo are off to the Worthington estate, stat. Swish swish. Guess you and Alex are on rescue detail._
_Joy. Tell Gambit to leave the silverware behind. And I wouldn’t count on Ohio being a safeguard. From what I saw at the DuBois, that Shiva lady controls teleportational portals. There’s no telling what her range is._
_You really know how to make people feel better, y'know that?_
“Mr. Summers?”
Scott made a show of holding up a hand and mumbling into a mini-microphone attached to his jacket. Trish Tilby waited, then pulled a face when he explained he’d been called away urgently. No point in demonstrating mutant powers in public. Only made people extra suspicious, and they didn’t need *that* right now.
“Well, can I arrange for another interview sometime?”
“You’d have to talk to Mr. Dann about that.” He gestured vaguely at the crowd where Dann had been standing before.
Trish rolled her eyes. “Like I can squeeze blood out of *that* stone." She waved to her cameraman. "Turn it off, Paul. We’re done here for today.”
Scott turned to go, but was caught by a slender, deceptively strong hand gripping his wrist. Trish pushed a small, laminated card into his hand and smiled a ruthlessly winsome smile. “Here’s my number, in case you decide to think for yourself. Ciao.” And with that, she hopped off the podium and fought her way through the diminishing mob.
Scott stared at the small card, then made as if to thriw it away. However, he caught sight of Dann standing furiously beside Jean behind the stage, and on impulse tucked it into his pocket instead. Then he strode away, leaving security to clean up the mess of people and mikes.
______________
Alsion leaned into Roman, and he lifted his chin enough to rest it in the top of her head, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Their faces were lit by the soft, flickering glow of her newly re-installed TV set. He’d rescued it from her apartment, and spent the better part of an hour arranging the aerial so that they could watch the emergency press conference being held by the X-Men.
Of course, the Professor had clued her in to most of what was going on, but it never hurt to be well-informed. Thus it was the two of them now sat perched on the end of her bed, take-out half-eaten in their laps as they watched the situation unfold on screen.
“Well, that was certainly unexpected,” Roman said as the broadcast ended.
Alison shook her head, dislodging his chin. “That poor little girl. How horrible for her; alone and scarred at age four."
~
Popcorn dribbled, unheeded, out of Bobby’s mouth and hand.
”…'kinell…“
Jubilee had her hands over her nose and mouth. "OmyGod, that poor little girl…”
“I'mgonnabesick,” muttered Jamie. He ran from the room.
Tears were falling down Rahne’s face. The same as Tabby.
Silence descended like a cold thrall, the only sound the ragged noise of emotionally upset breathing.
“Mah sister’s four year’s old,” said Sam.
“That tattoo’s gotta be there a coupl'a years,” whispered Rahne.
“Son of a *bitch*,” muttered Bobby. “I’m gonna vote they cut his *balls* off.” He made some rapid scratchings on a piece of pizza box with a marker.
“Would that make you better than him?”
All the kids straightened and turned.
“Professor,” said Bobby. “Ya gotta admit… this fucker’s got it coming. You saw the kid…”
“Yes. But punishing him for crimes real or imagined does *not*, in the end, help our cause. In the end, it just spreads more fear. More hate.”
“So…” Tabby’s voice broke with tears. “What? He gets away with it? He *hurt* a little *girl*. It coulda been us.”
“Could still be,” muttered Jubilee. “An’ they’d make it *nice* an' legal.”
“I know,” said Xavier. He wheeled himself into the room. “We’re in a delicate balance. Tip the scales too far - and everything falls down. We must be seen as 'good people’… examples of virtue. Heroes…”
Bobby had a coughing fit that contained the words, 'trained monkeys’.
Xavier glared at him. “*Bobby*…”
“He’s right,” said Sam. “We’re just performing *monkeys* for these government men. They *let* us look good, so they can get away with *SHIT* like that,” he gestured at the replay of Juliet, “behind closed doors. And we’ve gotta be *good* monkeys or we’re *next*.”
“I know,” said Xavier. “We are, to use the cliche, between a rock and a hard place. And I will not willingly surrender your safety, your *chance*, on a gamble that people will accept us without help.”
“I *hate* Mr Dann,” said Jubilee. “He tried to feel me up in the hall.”
“The guy’s scum,” said Tabby. “But we need him. I mean, with all the collateral damage and all, we *need* positive press.”
“Pot, kettle, black,” said Bobby.
“Face it,” said Jamie as he came back into the room. “We're practically the Legion of the Unwanted, ourselves.”
“Um,” said Tabby. “Hands up anyone who abducted a General? No? We're not like *them*.”
“Yes we are,” said Rahne. “When we got exposed, there was a whole buncha parents coming an’ yankin’ their kids away. Sam’s the only one here whose parents insisted he stay. Hell, Sam’s the only one who ain't abandoned or from a broken home.”
“Or alone,” added Catseye. “We’re alone together.” She fell back into her apparent coma on the chaise lounge.
“I still think he should be hung up by his cojones,” muttered Bobby.
“Do you think that would really stop him?” asked Xavier. “Or people *like* him?”
Bobby looked down. “Maybe. Prob'ly not. It’d make *me* feel better.”
“Hey, maybe we could sue him?” tried Jubilee. “Emotional damage?”
“Yeah. Like a class action suit from a buncha muties wouldn’t be laughed out of court,” snorted Tabby.
“Hey, come on. We have money. We can hire lawyers,” said Jamie. “Why not?”
“We’re muties,” said Catseye. “Not human.”
~